by Dave Duncan
“I do have, and I thank you for coming. I am anxious to know what happened on Monday, when Sage Archibald, may he rest in peace, was stricken in the great hall. You witnessed this?”
“No, Adept. It happened very suddenly. I did not see him rise from the table, but he fell almost at once. Some persons cried out, and then I observed Father Randolf going to his aid.”
“They were sitting together at the end of the table?”
“The left-hand end, yes.”
“Whose left hand?”
“His Lordship’s.”
Of course. That was the side of the hall with the entrance. At dinner, I had put myself at the other side, out of the traffic.
“And who sat next the priest?” I asked, mostly to gain time to think of my next question.
“Elmer, the clerk.”
“I don’t think I know. . . . Can you tell me the order of seating I saw today?”
Even that surprising request failed to move Wacian’s static features. “Certainly. From right to left or left to right?”
“From the left, if you please, with their titles or offices.”
Barely drawing breath, the bottler rattled off the list of today’s diners: Lady Aveline; Baroness Matilda; Toland the treasurer; Galan the count’s secretary; Sir Hugh the marshal; His Lordship; Her Ladyship; Father Randolf; Sir Bertrand the steward; Elmer the clerk; Hervé the wardrobe keeper. Upon request, he repeated it more slowly, and certainly the persons I knew fitted where he said they would.
“I took the liberty,” Wacian continued, “of asking Sir Hugh whether you should sit at high table in future, after what he said about you today as being the sage’s temporary replacement. He said he thought that would be premature.”
“I’d much rather sit with the knights and watch. The fiddler—”
“Arth the troubadour.”
“Thank you. Did Arth go anywhere close to Sage Archibald during that dinner on Monday?”
“Arth had not even begun to play, Adept. The sage was overcome before the squires’ table had been served.”
“So the fool had not performed yet, either?”
“No, Adept.”
Archibald, Randolf, Elmer . . . trying to visualize that scene, I sensed the maddening itch of an idea that is forming but has not yet hatched. Who had sat next to Elmer on Monday? That couldn’t matter. It seemed impossible that even the sage’s immediate neighbor, Father Randolf, could have slipped poison onto his dinner unseen. And everyone ate from the same serving dishes.
The clerk, Elmer, I recalled as a pale, somewhat vacant youth, lacking the weather-beaten complexion of the knights and others who spent most of their days outdoors. It was very likely one of Elmer’s robes that I was wearing at the moment. But why, on Monday, would the haughty Father Randolf have chosen to sit beside him? Were his confessions so meaty that even his casual conversation was worth hearing? Sage Archibald’s might have been.
“Am I correct in thinking that the first persons to arrive choose stools close to the center and latecomers have to sit at the ends?”
“It is rare for anyone to leave a gap, Adept. That could be taken as a slight.”
Something didn’t fit. I looked at the two goblets on the table. “Then on Monday, Sage Archibald must have been the last, or one of the last, to arrive?”
“That is so. He entered barely ahead of the count. Had he been a few moments later, he would not have been admitted.”
“And did anyone come with him?”
I had to wait a moment for the answer, but there could be only one answer, and Wacian had to give it. “His Reverence.”
Thunderbolt! Something had been bothering me all along about the death of Sage Archibald and now I saw that it was the timing. A tiny voice at the back of my mind had been asking me what poison could have worked so fast that it would have felled its victim before the end of the meal. Some might, but only in such enormous doses that they would be detectable by a trained sage. Wacian had testified that the victim had collapsed only minutes after the meal had begun. For a moment I stared at the two goblets right in front of me. They were the only goblets I had seen in the castle, almost certainly the sage’s personal property. They were also the murder weapon, and I should have seen that much sooner.
It suggested a way of identifying the killer: Morðor wile ut!
“When it became clear that the sage was seriously distressed, who organized the stretcher party to carry him out?”
“I did.” Wacian’s tone implied that nobody else gave orders to servants when he was around. “But we had no stretcher handy, and stretchers are not practical for taking an invalid down such stairs.”
“So what did you do?”
“I had one of the porters carry the learned sage down on his back, with two others going ahead to steady him if he stumbled.”
“Was the sage conscious or unconscious? In pain? Convulsing or unresponsive?”
Wacian actually frowned. “I cannot testify to his condition, Adept. He was talking, but his words were hard to make out, and what I heard made no sense. He kept covering his face with his hands. I don’t think he understood what was happening.”
“Where did they take him?”
“To the infirmary.” Where else?
“Who went with them?” The bottler himself would have remained at his post in the hall.
“Father Randolf and Her Ladyship.”
He could hardly have named two people less likely to cooperate with an upstart Saxon busybody like me. Hugh had forbidden any questioning of the count or countess.
Curiously, I cannot recall anyone mentioning that lady’s name to me during the days I spent in Barton Castle. She was always just “the countess” or “Her Ladyship.”
“Where could I find the priest?”
“Usually in the chapel at this time of day.” The bottler implied that any idiot ought to know that. “In the morning he is more often at All Saints’ in the village.”
It would seem, then, that Rudolf was both parish priest and castle chaplain, but that made sense when that grand old Saxon church stood right outside the gate.
“Another topic on which you can advise me, Wacian . . . the last thing the sage did before going to his final meal was to drink some wine—here, in his sanctum.”
The bottler allowed an eyebrow to rise in doubt.
“The goblets were still here, on the table,” I said, “and everything else was perfectly in order. Perhaps he felt sick already and did not feel moved to tidy them away. But I am puzzled by the absence of a wine flask. As bottler, you are in charge of the count’s wine?”
Of course, and I was a fool to ask. “I am, Adept. The wine arrives in barrels, and I oversee its transfer to jugs as it is needed. Only Her Ladyship and I hold keys to that cellar. Her Ladyship prefers imported wines to the homegrown, and the new season’s vintage has just begun arriving from Bordeaux. Not a good year, I am afraid.”
“And if someone other than the count himself wishes a jug of wine?” I saw that I was starting to pry into matters that did not concern me.
“Certain persons are entitled to request wine from the count’s cellar. I keep a record, of course, which I supply to the steward at the end of each month.”
That might limit the list of suspects, if the poison had been administered in the sage’s sanctum. “Sage Archibald would have been one such person?”
For a moment it seemed that Wacian would balk at revealing the secrets of his craft, but either Sir Hugh’s commendation overcame his scruples, or he wanted to defend his own efficiency. “As it happens, owing to the unusual demand in Northampton just now, our vintner failed to deliver on Saturday, and we ran out of wine. I was able to supply some high-quality mead to make up the shortfall, but I regret to say that Her Ladyship was somewhat displeased. Early on Monday the vintner delivered four casks, and I was able to resume the normal distribution. I assure you that a flask was delivered here, to Sage Archibald, and I saw him accept it.”
&n
bsp; I managed to avoid sending a meaningful glance to William: there was a mystery here. “Explain your ‘normal distribution.’”
Wacian’s momentary hesitation was as good as a deep sigh from anyone else. “Senior retainers—those with private quarters—are allowed wine from His Lordship’s store, for their own use or for entertaining friends. I decant the wine and take it around . . . I mean, I accompany the porter who takes it around, and I make sure that it is safely delivered to the right persons and no one else.”
“I am sure that your job requires unusual vigilance, and you appear to be commendably diligent.”
“Thank you, Adept. I do try to be. On Monday, as the previous supplies had mostly been exhausted, almost everyone returned an empty, or almost empty, flask and received a full one. Sage Archibald definitely accepted a full flask that morning, and returned an empty. I gave him number seven, as I recall, although I should have to inspect my notes to be certain. The flasks are numbered on the underside.”
I puzzled for a moment, then asked, “Who did not receive a new flask?” I wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it felt like the next question.
Wacian frowned, uncomfortable at discussing community affairs with an outsider. “Well, Father Randolf wasn’t there, but he has given me authority to enter his vestry in his absence, and I did so. Very little had been removed from his flask but I replaced it anyway, because he uses it for the sacrament, and it should always be fresh. Number four, I believe. Master of Horse Alwin was away; Treasurer Toland was at work in the counting room.”
“What would happen to the wine you recovered from Father Randolf?”
“Unless it smelled sour, it would be returned to the supply.”
Did that explain why the murderer had removed the rest of the draft that had killed Archibald—in case it was returned to the general store? But why take the flask as well, instead of just tipping the balance outside, on the ground or in the privy?
“One last matter, if you will bear with me. Last night, you supervised the setting up of a bed for Sage Rolf. And you would have been the last servant to leave?”
“I did and I was.”
“There was a chest alongside his cot. Did you or anyone else leave a flask of wine there for him?”
“Anticipating that he might feel thirsty when he awoke, I saw that a jug of water and a beaker were left there. Indeed, put them there myself.”
“Squire, show him, please.”
William lifted the monkshood tincture down from the shelf and offered it to the bottler.
“Not like that, no. What I placed there was a single-handled jug of Dudley pottery painted with blue and green chevrons and two-thirds filled with fresh rainwater. The beaker was decorated to match.”
I thought back to early morning. There had been at least two jugs among the empties I had seen in the death chamber, so the killer had likely brought the flask and made the switch unnoticed. I gathered up my staff and rose. “I thank you for coming, Master Bottler. You have been most helpful. You will perhaps direct me to the chapel. . . .”
Another knock at the door. William dutifully crossed the room and opened it.
“Sir Scur, master.”
“Bid him enter.”
“Ha!” the fool said, doing so. He had shed his rabbit mask and wore his shapeless old rags. “I see you have caught other prey, fox, and one already stuffed.”
The bottler did not even look at him.
“But when the rabbit enters his earth, the fox flees,” I countered. “Thank you again, Bottler. The fool can take me to the chapel.”
“What? Marriage so soon? Being of one flesh, then, shall we make a three-eyed, three-legged monster?”
Behind Scur’s back the bottler rolled his eyes in the first human gesture I had seen from him, then promptly departed, as if ashamed of this outburst of emotion.
“Fool, I wish to speak with Father Randolf, so you can guide me to him.”
“Aye, but not lead you to righteousness.”
What did that mean? Scur kept dropping tantalizing hints that he knew things he could not or would not spell out.
“William,” I said, “you will finish the responses and then you had better copy out the rest of the incantation, because your hand is much more legible than the original. Some parts are quite obscure, so leave those until I can guide you.”
William said, “Yes, master,” with a look that suggested I had just added two more kicks in the crotch to our future settlement.
chapter 20
despite the lateness of the season, soupy mud was steaming in the afternoon sunshine. Trudging along at Scur’s side in the general direction of the keep, I said, “You wanted to see me?”
“No more than anyone would ever want to see me.”
“Then why did you come to the sanctum?”
“To lead you to the chapel.”
“How did you know I wanted to go to the chapel?”
“You said so.”
“Wherever you’re taking me, our conversation is going nowhere.” Sir Hugh had instructed him to help me and probably he had come to see what I needed, if anything. “Can you think of anyone who had reason to want to murder the sage?”
“Ah, half a head can only think of half the people.”
“You used that joke before. How about men? Do you know any men who might have wanted him dead?”
“Might might be right or might might be wrong.”
Now I had made him mad. “True. On Monday, when the sage was stricken in the hall, where were you?”
“Far enough away that no one can accuse a poor fool of sending him to Hell.”
“Are you sure he went to Hell?” That was a harsh judgment on a man, even from a jester who made his living by insulting people. Hugh had said that Scur knew everyone and everywhere.
“I hope not to have to go there to seek him.”
“But that would be the first place you would look?”
“Yesterday you would have found him in here,” Scur said, halting at a doorway. “And today you will find another of his kind.”
We had arrived at the castle chapel, a small stone shed, starkly plain. It seemed that successive counts of Barton had relied on the village church and made do with a mere token place of worship inside the bailey. The door stood open. Peering in, I saw Rolf de Mandeville’s coffin on trestles taking up most of the tiny nave, with the count himself kneeling in prayer beside it.
Not wishing to disturb, I backed away and turned to Scur. “Where can I find the priest?”
“Why, where he is and nowhere else!” The ogre leered in triumph. “But had I any similar ambition, which God forbid, I would start looking around the other side of this workshop of his.”
“Thanks.” I walked away. Even if the old man’s gimcrack ranting was not his fault, it did become wearing. Why could he not just come out and tell me what he knew or suspected?
Around the corner I discovered an even smaller building attached to the church. Smoke was drifting up through the hole in the thatch, and the door was ajar. My shadow alerted the occupant.
“Enter!” the priest intoned.
I entered.
“Oh, it’s you.” For comfort, Father Randolf had furnished his cell with a chair, a small table, a plank bed with a blanket folded on it, and a stool. He had a book in his hand. Vestments hung on a hook behind the door. This nook must serve as vestry and perhaps confessional, but he took his vocation very seriously if he slept there also. He might have a rectory in the village as well. “Did you come to make confession?”
“I came to ask you a few questions about the death of Sage Archibald, Father.”
The priest sighed angrily, closed the book on a finger to mark his place, and clasped it in both hands on his lap. “Sir Hugh can issue orders to everyone else except His Lordship, but he cannot instruct me. I fail to see why I need pander to your nosiness, Durwin.”
He had not told me to sit.
“Father, the reason the count allowed the
marshal to make that announcement today, was that I had proved to Sir Hugh earlier—proved beyond doubt—that the count’s brother was murdered. The flask of water that had been placed beside his bed had been replaced with a flask of deadly poison, which I identified by name for Sir Hugh. I also know where it came from.”
Randolf ’s face darkened in anger. He closed his eyes in prayer for a moment, crossed himself, and then said, “Very well. Or very evil, rather. Sit down, my son! What do you want to know?”
For starters, I want to know if you did it.
I perched on the stool. “On Monday, you and Sage Archibald arrived late at the hall for dinner. That was why you were sitting together?”
“Beware of jumping to incorrect conclusions, Boy Logician. I disapproved of the heretical, even pagan, leanings in much of Archibald’s philosophy, but that did not mean I spurned him as a dining companion. He could discourse on subjects that few others hereabouts could. We enjoyed verbal sparring quite often. Are you suggesting that I poisoned his food? He had hardly begun to eat. Indeed, I am not sure he ate anything. He drank two beakers of wine, though.”
“I am quite certain that he was not poisoned at the table, Father. Do you know why he was late?” Had the two of them been sharing a flask of wine in the sanctum, perhaps?
“No. I met him on my way there. He seemed unsteady and confused. I thought at first he had been drinking, early as the hour was. But he complained of his eyes. I saw him safely to the hall. He had some trouble on the stairs.”
“Did he say where he had been?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything, then or later, about poison?”
“Not a thing. He mumbled a lot.”
“And when the porters carried him out, was he responsive? Was he in pain?”
“He cried out as we left the hall. I remember naught else.”
“You stayed with him at the infirmary until he died?”
“I did. He was the sage, and who will heal the healer? We soon realized that there was no time to send for another. The roads were almost impassable—two hours to come from Northampton! I administered extreme unction just before he went into coma.”